


Before We Begin...

by theroguesgambit



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Future Fic, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 05:49:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1887270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parrish Stilinski-Hale convinces his parents to let him travel back in time to the year 2011, to meet his grandfather, the Sheriff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A quick drabble based on my [Tumblr Post](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com/post/90509364100/parrish-loves-working-with-sheriff-stilinski-hes). This might continue or might stay as is, depending on my inspiration level.

“Oh come on, it’ll be just like an exchange program.”

Derek sets his glass on the table and levels his son with an even look usually reserved for his mate.

From his left, Claudia snorts unhelpfully.

“Don’t be an idiot, idiot. It’s nothing like an exchange program.”

Whoever said siblings have each others’ backs was obviously an only child. Talia, looking up from her homework, smiles sweetly.

“I think it’s an awesome idea.” And then, before Parrish has a chance to feel properly grateful, ruins it with: “I get to go too, right?”

Well, there went that.

“It’s not a vacation,” he says evenly. “And you’re both too young.” Then, back to his papa (who’s leaning back in his chair now, arms crossed and silently skeptical) “I’ll just be there for a few months, I’ll stay under the radar, won’t get involved in any major events and I won’t let anyone know who I am.” And then, more eagerly: “I’ve been studying time travel theory for the past year with Deaton—“

“Which I told you was a waste of time, didn’t I?”

He had, repeatedly. But as one of only two humans in a family constantly bombarded by the supernatural, Parrish had made it one of his major projects from a young age to learn as much as he could about spells and magical theory to help out. Wolves have a lot of advantages on humans, but a grasp on magic definitely isn’t one of them.

His papa has always grumbled that he’d inherited way too much of his dad’s investigative genes, but there's always a smile in his eyes as he says it.

Now he turns to his dad for help. Stiles Stilinski-Hale had been hovering behind his husband’s chair since the start of the conversation, a vaguely amused, contemplative look in his honey-brown eyes.

He had shifted forward even as Derek leaned back, their body movements adorably in-sync as always. Even now Stiles reaches out to caress Derek's nape soothingly as his expression goes taut with tension.

“Honestly, Der, I’ve been kind of waiting for this for a while.”

Derek rolls his eyes, leaning back into the placating palm.

“So have I. So I can shoot him down.”

Sometimes, Parrish thinks his parents forget that he’s twenty-four years old. Coming to them is a courtesy more than anything… except he’s been raised with a pack instinct, human or no, and he’s sure he won’t be able to bring himself to go without their blessing.

He settles for sighing, opening his mouth to run through the long list of precautions he plans on taking – this is a big deal to him, he’s not running into it blindly – but his dad holds up a hand and then leans slowly forward, tipping his papa’s chin back until they’re staring, upside-down, into each other’s eyes.

“And you know how I love to see you go alpha-wolf on the kids, Der, but think with me for a minute. Think about the time he’s asking to go to.”

Derek sighs at the pointedly soothing tone, but goes along with it.

“After your father learned about the supernatural. So your junior year.” Stiles smiles down at him, miles ahead of his husband on something and clearly loving it. Talia, impatient as always, starts in on variations of “what? What, dad?” but Parrish is the one who’s studied time travel theory in detail, and it hits him suddenly, sharp enough to send the air whooshing out of his lungs. His dad catches his eye, winking and grinning.

His papa stares between them, not nearly as pleased. He purses his lips and then, sounding nearly just like his youngest daughter:

“ _What?”_

“Think about it, babe. What’s our son’s name?”

Derek sends Stiles a look like he’s completely lost it. It’s a familiar expression; it tends to show up at least once a week.

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

Stiles smirks.

“Ok, well just hold that name in your head then, Der. Now take a nice, long look at our kid.”

Parrish knows exactly where this is going, and tries not to wilt at the weight of the knowledge as his papa levels that same, skeptical look on him.

 _They’d known him_.

“Yes,” Derek says a little tightly, hands clenching over his biceps. “I see our son. This isn’t new information, Stiles.”

“Right, obviously.” Stiles leans forward against the back of the chair, wrapping his arms over his husband’s shoulders. “So what kind of a job were you thinking of going for when you land back in 2011? Thinking of maybe becoming a… deputy, Parrish?”

Everything in Derek’s stance stiffens at once. Stiles has obviously been waiting for it, running a soothing hand down his husband’s arm and pressing a kiss into his cheek while Derek stares at his son like he’s suddenly seeing a stranger.

“That… he’s…”

Stiles smiles.

“Yup.”

“How long have you…”

“I figured it out a few months back, once he started getting seriously invested in the concept.” Derek twists his neck to shoot him a fast, sharp look, and he smiles innocently, not giving an inch on his embrace. “To be fair, I hung around the station a lot more than you did.”

He doesn’t add anything about being the far keener observer, or revel in holding one over his husband. Obviously he senses that Derek isn’t quite in the state of mind to take it well.

Claudia rises quietly, padding to her parents’ side and rubbing her cheek against Derek’s shoulder soothingly. She has always been the most nurturing of the pack, sensing just what the rest of the family needs. His papa really must be reeling.

Again Derek turns to stare, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. He looks like he’s trying to line up what he knows of his son with the person he remembers from thirty years before.

“We weren’t trying to… we named him after my…”

“I know,” Stiles says, shaking his head and grinning, his eyes crinkling. It’s a more comforting expression by far than the dull shock his papa’s sending his way, but then again, Stiles has apparently had months more to process.

Derek clears his throat.

“So if I forbid it I’ll basically end up destroying the time-space continuum.”

Stiles beams, taking his mate’s chin and kissing him gently on the lips.

“Pretty much.”

His papa seems more or less mollified by the kiss, leaning back into Stiles’ embrace and shaking his head at Parrish.

“Magic…” The word comes out with the usual hint of disdain, but his lips are tilting, a disbelieving smile starting to creep over his face. Parrish grins back.

“Magic,” he repeats, far more brightly.

He’s actually going to do this. He’s going to go back in time, meet his parents before they were his parents. And become a deputy under the grandfather he idolized, who’d died back when he was a child.

And apparently, since it had happened once already, he isn’t going to screw it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat or send me prompts on my [Tumblr](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com/ask)!


	2. Back to the Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!
> 
> So I've decided that instead of trying to mold a single, coherent plotline, I'll just be using this to post the stray scenes that I come up with. That means that, while everything will take place in the same universe, they'll not necessarily be in chronological order and there won't be a solid plot carrying the story from A to Z. Just a bunch of moments that all fit into the Parrish Stilinski-Hale universe.  
> \-- --  
> This week - Parrish interacts with Derek in 2012, and things get a bit awkward.

Parrish has been forced to endure a lot of awkward situations in his life. Being a human teenager in a house with two nosy werewolf sisters had left him, he’d thought, more or less numb to any and all kinds of embarrassment.

That is, until he glances up from a computer screen one day to find Derek Hale looking at him with an expression that should only be reserved for one person.

And that person is definitely not his son.

It’s soft, thoughtful, with just a bit of heat behind it, like he’s halfway caught in a daydream he’s not quite willing to acknowledge.

Parrish clears his throat, fighting the grimace he knows he’d never be able to adequately explain. Instead, he raises his brows, feigning ignorance.

“What is it?”

He knows his papa, knows that the buttons that might make some people push forward will just make him back down. His papa’s never been great at instigating heart-to-hearts; he can offer some of the most meaningful advice Parrish has ever heard, and some of the fiercest hugs, too, but he’s never one to _start_ a heartfelt conversation, especially if he’s not sure where it’s leading. And to hear the rest of the pack tell it, the father he knows from his own time is a bleeding heart compared to the Derek they’d first met while they were in high school.

Just as he hopes, Derek’s eyes drop. Less promising is the way his ears go red at the tips, and _oh god no_ he’s having an honest to god _Back to the Future_ moment right now, isn’t he? He’d always found that part of the movie hilarious, never once stopped to consider how scarring the experience must have been for poor Marty McFly.

Parrish might not be Derek Hale’s biological son, just like Claudia isn’t Stiles’, but the man is his father in every way that’s ever mattered. He’s not sure if he can handle his papa kissing him and telling him it felt like kissing his brother. (Or not telling him that. Crap, what if Derek kisses him and decides he _likes_ it?)

His mind starts to spiral out of control, picking up dizzying threads of “what if,” dragging up old evidence and looking at it in a new light. He remembers his papa’s shocked reaction when he’d pieced together that his son and Deputy Parrish were one in the same person. Is this what he’d been remembering? Being interested in his son? God, _making a pass_ at his son? Was Parrish going to have to dodge a pass from Derek?

Derek’s hand goes up, scrubbing against the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Sorry, it’s just…”

And then he trails off, angling his head toward the door and tilting his ear up – a clear sign that he’s listening for the sound of returning footsteps.

It’s late and the station’s mostly cleared out for the night; just Parrish, the Sheriff, and “freelance consultant” Derek Hale burning the midnight oil on a case that’s clearly supernatural in origin, and has left Parrish bending over backwards to appear ignorant of the obvious while still being marginally helpful to the investigation.

It’s altogether been one of the most ridiculous situations Parrish could imagine being thrown into – three generations of Stilinskis (because Derek _is_ a Stilinski, or will be, every bit as much as Stiles will end up being a Hale) sitting together in one office, and he’s the only one who knows it. It’s one of those moments that would probably be incredibly awkward, if Parrish weren’t immune to such things.

But now his papa is listening furtively for his grandpa’s approach, like he wants to get something out in the open before he comes back. And Parrish shifts uncomfortably, mind scrambling for a way to change the subject, but Derek’s already continuing before he can force anything out.

“It’s just, sometimes you remind me of someone.”

The panic bleeds out of Parrish in a rush.

He reminds Derek of someone. He’s nervous about talking about it in front of the Sheriff.

He reminds his papa of Stiles.

He forces down a proud, dopey grin. He’s heard that line plenty of times growing up, but that was from people who already knew who he was. People say things like that, empty words meant to tease or flatter. He’s even heard that he has his papa’s green eyes from people who don’t realize that he’s the product of Stiles and a surrogate. He’s inherited plenty of things from his papa to be sure, but his eyes aren’t one of them.

So he's heard more than once that he's the image of Stiles Stilinski. But now Derek’s saying it without having any idea what it means, and it makes something burn bright and warm inside of Parrish. He should probably let the subject drop, but he can’t help fishing a little.

“…Should I take that as a compliment?”

And internally flinches. Even if his papa’s thinking about Stiles, even if he’s obviously completely gone on the teen, he said that Parrish _reminds_ him of Stiles. Reminds him of the person he’s head over heels for. Parrish really shouldn’t be saying anything that could possibly be interpreted as an invitation.

Derek lets out an incredulous snort, but there’s fondness in the sound. His eyes crinkle, just briefly, in a way that makes him look less haunted and more like the father Parrish had grown up with.

“Probably not.”

Still in the denial stage, then. Or at least, the “not comfortable admitting it out loud” stage.

He’s seen his dad behave the same way, rolling his eyes whenever Derek’s name comes up around the station, scoffing that his help isn’t necessary, and then turning around and complaining that Derek should get his lazy butt over here to help out, whenever he’s out of sight.

It’s raw and rough, the bond between them, in a way that sometimes leaves Parrish grimacing, but at other times it’s so much like the dynamic he grew up around that he’s not sure how everyone hasn’t caught on to their feelings yet.

He’s not supposed to interfere... but then he’s sitting here in his grandpa’s office, working with his papa to stop a supernatural threat the town faced five years before he was conceived, so that’s always been a bit of a blurry line. He leans back in his chair, gauges the fondness his papa’s trying to bury in a rough expression (his eyes are on a picture of Stiles on the Sheriff’s desk; he’s not even being _subtle_ ) and finds himself saying:

“If that someone can make you smile like that just by thinking about them, maybe you should do something about it.”

Derek’s eyes flick from the picture, and Parrish schools his expression into a carelessly mild one, shrugging. He’s calm, he’s casual, he’s completely uninvested in this almost-stranger getting a happy ending. Derek’s looking away again a second later, shifting uncomfortably, and Parrish is pretty sure he failed on the casual front.

“It’s not that easy.”

Parrish grins. His parents are perfect for each other, but he’d never been under any illusions that what they’d forged together was “easy.”

“Some of the best things are the ones you need to fight for.”

Like coming back here. Like the year of study, training under Deaton, the ritual that had allowed him to drag his way upstream through the currents of time to learn from his grandfather. It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done, mentally, emotionally, and magically, but he wouldn’t trade a second of it for anything.

His papa’s eyes are closing off again, though, hearing something in the words Parrish hadn’t meant to convey. His eyes fall back on Stiles’ photo for just a second, before he’s looking sharply away, huffing a sigh.

“Sometimes you get tired of fighting.”

Parrish blinks, nonplussed.

That’s a new one. His parents are all kinds of sweet and fond and affectionate when they want to be, but he has never in his life seen a couple enjoy bickering so much as they do. He spent half his adolescent years thinking a well timed insult or sarcastic comment was as much of an “I love you” as the words, themselves.

But this is a Derek who hasn’t heard the “I love yous” yet, who isn’t sure whether the bickering _is_ anything more than annoyance. Who has lost his whole family and not yet gained a new one to soften that ache in his heart. Parrish knows where Derek had been for the two months he hadn’t been around town, knows that he’d just recently experienced the pain of losing his family all over again when he returned as a teenager, and Parrish found him kneeling over the remains of his childhood home.

His heart aches for his papa and his betrayals and losses, and in a reckless moment the notion of non-interference goes right out the window. He leans forward, finding his father’s hand where it rests on the table over the map, and squeezes it softly. Derek looks down at the contact and then back up. His brows furrow, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Hey, you’re going to have good things in your life, Derek. Trust me. You’ve just got to fight a little bit longer.”

Derek lets out a slow breath, something unsure and halfway hopeful flicking across his features.

And that, of course, is when the Sheriff chooses to reappear in the doorway, brows hiking up as he glances between Derek, Parrish, and their clasped hands. Derek pulls away fast, flushing, and that definitely doesn’t help with whatever’s going through the Sheriff’s head.

“Huh,” is all he says, before Derek’s shoving his hands into his jacket pockets and pushing away from the table, announcing that it’s late and he wants to run a perimeter sweep before going to bed. He’s out the door in seconds, his car revving to life in the lot a minute later.

And Parrish is left alone under the full weight of his boss’s – his _grandfather’s_ – considering gaze.

“You know, last year I might not have said so, but you could definitely do worse, kid.”

He’s twenty-five years old, he’s a patient man and a professional, and he still barely fights the urge to screw up his face and make a gagging motion at the thought.

If the Sheriff had the first idea what he was saying…

“I _really_ don’t think he’s interested in me.”

The Sheriff only grins, settling back into his seat.

“That’s not what it looked like to me.”

There’s really no way to argue without letting _something_ slip, so Parrish just lets out an audible sigh, turning back to his computer screen.

His life is officially worse than _Back to the Future._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [my tumblr](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com) and share your own ideas/prompts, or headcanons. :)


	3. Godmothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parrish remembers his favorite aunts growing up: Lydia and Braeden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably add this piece as well. Some of you might have already seen it on [tumblr](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com/post/91278423705/re-muted-braeden-and-lydia-probably-parrish-is-so) but I should get all these things up in one place. :)
> 
> Based on this Tumblr prompt: re: muted — Braeden and Lydia: probably Parrish is so disturbingly *confiding* because they're his godmothers? :)

Aunt Lydia had been Parrish’s first love, in the way that four year olds often develop first loves: with wide-eyed adoration and earnest declarations of marriage, presenting her with meticulously made macaroni necklaces, and shameless requests to dance with her at every formal event. She was his favorite too, no doubt about that, with the way she showered him with designer outfits, took him out to special lunches even when she wasn’t asked to babysit, and called him her little gentleman.

“You’ve gotta admit,” Uncle Scott liked to tell dad, with the air of a long-running joke between them, “he’s got way better game than you ever did.”

His papa had always rolled his eyes a little at that, and if it hadn’t been for the fond crinkles in the corners of his eyes, Parrish would’ve thought he was annoyed by it all.

“Really though, should we be worried? Is hopeless Lydia-obsessing in your genes or something?”

And his dad had just grinned and kissed his papa’s nose or his forehead or whatever he’d decided would make his papa’s eyes roll the hardest, and said “Just be glad it skipped my dad’s generation. Could you imagine the weirdness?”

Aunt Braeden was around less often. She spent most of her time traveling to secret locations, working jobs that she only ever described in the vaguest of terms around the younger generation, which left Parrish with the unshakable impression that she was actually the second coming of Indiana Jones. Nobody fought the assumption, and she would regale Parrish and his sisters with tales of monsters she’d had to face down, secret locations she’d discovered, and artifacts she’d acquired on her journeys.

Once she’d mentioned being hired to go to an Aztec temple and recover “a pretty fine prize.” That, for some reason, had made his papa look away with red ears and a scoff, his dad sidling up to wrap an arm around his waist.

"Oh yeah, didn’t I win that one from you pretty soon after that?" To which Aunt Braeden flashed her teeth, head tilting so her scars caught in the moonlight.

"I was never really playing for it." And there’d been an odd sort of tension for about half a second, until his papa had rolled his eyes, grabbed his dad’s chin and gone " _seriously_?”

"What?" His dad had been the picture of innocence. "I totally won that fine Mexican prize.”

“You did,” his papa had agreed, and kissed him softly, and Parrish had groaned and turned his attention _anywhere but his gross kissy parents oh my god could they be less obvious in public please_?

He’d spent about a week after that searching through his house, a barely toddling Claudia recruited to the cause, trying to discover the awesome prize his dad had won from Aunt Braeden.

He felt kind of dense once he’d come back in time and started noticing the ways his future family all danced around each other – Aunt Braeden ( _just Braeden. If you call her Aunt in your head, you’ll mess up and say it out loud)_ making sharp, suggestive comments that left pap— _Derek’s_ gaze trailing after her with no little amount of interest. The way Stiles’ jaw would go a little bit tight and he’d hang off Malia (and there’s _another_ mental image he could have done without) a little more in turn, and Derek’s nostrils would flare and he’d pretend to be annoyed on his cousin’s behalf, not Stiles’.

His parents, ladies and gentlemen.


	4. Memories - Fifteen

At fifteen years old, Parrish Stilinski-Hale – young, overly proud of his newly emerged spark, and too much in love with a pretty girl – spent over a month researching tricks and spells that would allow him to spend more time with her. His papa was overprotective (let’s capital, bold, underline, and try that again: **Overprotective** ) about the idea of him dating in a way Parrish couldn’t really begin to understand, and even his dad couldn’t pull him out of the compulsive “when hell freezes over” scowl he’d gotten as soon as Parrish had mentioned the senior girl from the lacrosse team who’d asked him to the homecoming dance last fall. At fifteen. As a sophomore. The whole thing had pretty much been the talk of the school.

But then Parrish had come home and his papa had clenched his jaw, tensing up in a way he usually only did when the pack was being threatened, and shut the whole thing down before it started.

“Come on, Derek,” His dad had said, before Parrish stalked out of hearing range. “You know how young I was when I fell for you.”

“And you know how young _I_ was when I fell for Kate.”

Which had fallen from his papa’s lips like a dropped grenade and seemed to wound each of them in equal measure, setting off a week-long cold war of overly polite comments and secretly pining glances that Parrish never wanted to witness again. His dads _fought_ , alright, they didn’t do polite.

Dating was a taboo subject in the house, apparently.

So Parrish had very pointedly _not_ told either of them when he’d started seeing Theresa three months later, and thus the great spark-fueled subterfuge began.

He’d tried little things at first – like the muffling charm to keep papa and the girls from hearing if he talked to or about her on the phone or met her in the woods behind the yard – before he’d stumbled across the spell for the golem and that had been _glorious_. For an entire week, Parrish had a ready-made duplicate, a clay-and-magic molded stand in to hang around the house when he wanted to sneak out and spend some time with Theresa. He even started taking a pottery class at school to explain the earthy scent that clung to it.

Of course, it had been a bit of a rush job, and Parrish missed some key elements. He hadn’t put all that much thought, for example, into the fact that the duplicate couldn’t mimic his _memories_. He’d thought that teaching it enough basic facts to make its way around the house would be enough to skate by on for a little while. His family’s names, where important things in the house were. It would only be for a few hours at a time anyway; how much trouble could it cause?

More than he’d realized.

It had taken five days for him to notice his dad’s face going pale and drawn when he looked at him, and he figured he was probably skating on thin ice. Then his papa had started nuzzling more often, like he was trying to scent something foreign on him, and Parrish figured he was caught. What else would his father be sniffing for, after all? Finally, after his papa had pulled him into a compulsive scenting after dinner on the seventh day, he’d had enough.

“ _Yes_ ,” he’d snapped, pushing himself out of his papa’s clinging grip. “Yes, ok, I have a girlfriend. I know I’m fifteen and you think I’m too young but I’ve been dating her for a month and a half and it’s been _great_.”

His dad had stared at him, brown eyes glassy with something Parrish couldn’t read, but it definitely didn’t seem like his usual “you’re grounded” look. His papa had just gone back a step, braced a hand on his dad’s hip, and echoed, “girlfriend?” in a tone that suggested pretty clearly that Parrish had blown that secret for no reason. They hadn’t had a clue.

There were tears in his dad’s eyes, then, his breaths coming out too fast. His papa had shifted to stand halfway behind him, arm looping his shoulders and massaging his chest the way he usually did when the pack had narrowly avoided becoming the victim of whatever supernatural threat was intent on invading Beacon Hills that month.

But his dad didn’t usually look this shaken.

Parrish had been stunned right out of his defiant posturing, swallowing thickly and offering: “Yeah, my girlfriend. Theresa? She’s in my chem class, she’s really…” He trailed off though, because neither of his parents really looked up for absorbing more than the barest details right now. His papa leaned forward, scanning Parrish’s face critically, rubbing his stubbled cheek against his husband’s own and murmuring “Could that explain it? Just being girl-stupid?”

His dad had squeezed his eyes shut, lifting a hand to clutch at the one massaging his chest, and shook his head. Then he’d opened his eyes, and said evenly: “Parrish Stilinski-Hale, tell me exactly what you’ve been doing this past week or I swear to god I’ll…” and then he’d faltered, which had worried Parrish almost more than anything. His papa wasn’t really one for creative threats, generally letting an even glare scare whatever guilty confession was on this children’s conscience out of them, but his dad... his dad _excelled_ at wordplay. He had a lightning-fast list of one-liners and creative punishments that had never, in Parrish’s memory, gone on repeat. But now his voice was coming out thin and reedy, his creative faculties failing him, and Parrish had felt so sick with guilt and nerves that he’d found himself ducking his head and explaining all about, Theresa, their secret rendezvouses, and the golem.

And his dad had squeezed his papa’s hand tight enough to fracture something in a human, breathed out a ragged “oh, thank god,” and then gone forward to wrap Parrish in a fierce hug.

And that’s how Parrish had learned the details of his grandmother’s death: her illness, and his dad’s deep-seated fear of contracting it or passing it on. His papa had come to his room that night and explained it, stilted and with few details – that the golem hadn’t been answering questions properly, that it had seemed lost and confused in its own home more than once, that his dad had spent the last several nights praying Parrish was on drugs or _possessed_ (a bitter smirk had touched his papa’s lips at that) because the alternative was too terrible to think about.

And nine years later, and twenty years back, he saw that same drawn expression on his grandfather’s face when he explained how his son had been admitted to the hospital.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com)


End file.
